Love is Damned, and So Am I
by Lucifer's HellHound
Summary: A tale of Dean's time spent in Hell. Alistair, Dean, Sam, John and a Surprise. Torture/Incest/Slash/Non-Con all possible. Chapters coming regularly. Please R&R if your not squeamish.
1. Chapter 1

"Damned is Love;

and So am I"

By Lucifer's Hell Hound

Universe: Supernatural  
Class: Fan Fiction  
Characters: Dean Winchester, Alistair. Guest appearances by Sam Winchester, John Winchester, and Mary Winchester (Campbell)  
Setting: Hell (between End S03 and Start S04)  
Rating: NC-17 (XXX)  
Warnings: Extreme violence, torture, homo-erotica, incest (sort of), sodomy, language, disturbing imagery, non-consensual sexual interactions, etc.  
Spoilers: Assume you've seen everything up to the end of Season 3

Note: This isn't grandma's fanfic. Be aware that this is a dark, violent, and likely to be extremely disturbing interpretation of some of Dean's time spent in Hell and his interactions/experiences with Alistair. If you find the above warnings to be not to your taste please don't waste your time or mine with reactions of horror.  
Consider yourselves warned.  
Feedback is appreciated; although there is no need to tell me how fucked up I am, I am fully aware (as are my therapists).

Disclaimer: "Supernatural," and all associated names, characters and titles are the sole property of CW Broadcasting, Inc. and its subsidiaries; including Eric Kripke, Robert Singer, Ben Edlund, and any other various sorts who might have a controlling copyright interest. The names of characters, certain plot sequences, and mythological universes are used without permission and without monetary gain. No harm is intended by the use of said intellectual property and no copyright infringement is implied or intended.

Please Note: This fanfiction is protected under the International Copyright Act of 2009. Copying and Re-Posting of this fanfiction qualifies as copyright infringement of intellectual property. If you wish to recommend this work, post it to another site, or in any other way copy, display, or represent this work to another, please contact me first via e-mail. Thank You.

* * *

Chapter 1

"_All right then, I'll go to Hell." _~Mark Twain

Dean opened his eyes, slowly, expecting at any moment that the silence around him was just another trick; one more way to get under his skin. He was alone. Blissfully, happily, startlingly alone. He was in Hell. He knew it because the very air he breathed burned like acid in his lungs. He knew it because hope of rescue had long ago left him. He didn't know how long his eyes had been closed, or how long it'd been since Alistair had last played with him. Time wasn't really discernable any more. Minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, _years_. He didn't know how long it had been since the hounds had come for him; he and Sam struggling so feebly; hearing the agony in his brother's voice as his mind slipped away and his soul was dragged screaming into the Pit.

Since those wretched beasts had torn him to shreds he'd learned that their teeth and claws were like silken sheets compared to a lot of things. He'd learned that reality had limits but Hell did not. He'd learned that Hell had it's own laws of nature; things like gravity and time didn't work here. Most of all he'd learned that there were absolutely no limits on the concept of pain.

He was alone and in Hell and he was _cold_. It was dark, too. It was so cold that he long ago forgot what it was like to feel his extremities. Though since being here he had come to realize that feeling one's extremities wasn't always such a good thing and so was content to believe they still existed, even if he couldn't see them. The dark and the cold weren't the worst things he'd experienced in the Pit, but they were constants. Whoever said Hell was all fire and brimstone apparently had never seen the place, though heat and fire were put to use. He shuddered. Moving on, please.

His next thought was Sam. God. Sam… Dean wanted to remember his brother. The reason he'd done that mad, insane, stupid thing which ended him _here_. Sammy, his little brother, his life, his mission since before… Before what? The memories were fading. Memories of life and joy and kindness, loyalty and love, and cheeseburgers and beer. Things that held him together in life were fading from his mind. Burned away by pain and suffering, torn out of his skull by sheer agony minute after minute after hour after hour after day after day. It never ended. So why was he alone? Reality slapped him hard across the face, leaving his cheek split open and burning from the sulfuric fumes that permeated everything. He opened his eyes again, weakly, knowing already who's fist it had been. There was no one else.

"Alistair," he heard himself rasp, feebly.

The demon, his nemesis, his tormentor, his companion in eternity stood before him, a grin on his hideous face. "Dean…" he crooned, his voice like the rasp of piano wire. "You've been waiting for me? I should have known you would miss me. Alone with your thoughts your bound to find things far more worthy than any of _my_ attentions."

"You love hearing yourself talk," Dean responded, pulling out the bravado he didn't feel. "Why don't we get on with it, shall we? I'm feeling rather tired today." He tried a grin, but the pain in his face turned it into a grimace.

"Ahh, yes. But we have already started, Dean," Alistair purred. "We were discussing your mind. The memories you hold onto still. The ones I have yet to tear from you…" He raised a clawed hand and showed Dean the shining razor clutched in it.

Dean looked at the now familiar blade. It was beautiful, honestly; sleek, smooth, glinting in the red fire-glow, and brutally, devastatingly sharp. For all the tools, toys, machines, and creativity of Hell, the razor remained Alistair's favorite. It was effective, too. Efficient. Dean couldn't recall a day where he hadn't felt it's sting. Felt the silver bite into his skin, his muscle, sinew, organs. It's effect on bone was especially excruciating, he recalled, and couldn't repress a shudder. His bravado left him as quickly as he had recalled it and he looked away, desperate to find something else, but there was nothing but suffering surrounding him.

Alistair smiled seeing the fear in Dean's eyes as the razor's edge glinted in the welling tears. He took a step back, thinking. His eyes raked the naked form before him, bound so sparingly yet so inescapably. Dean's body was pristine today, save for the ugly gash on his cheek bone that now wept a thin rivulet of blood. The position of the crucifixion was especially attractive to him, though the Roman modification of a cross in the shape of an X had been remarkable. The modified bracing he had Dean bound to spread the body in a way that was especially pleasing: spreading the legs just so allowed access to some of the most sensitive areas of the body; the arms nearly straight out from the shoulders so as to allow maximum leverage when adjusting the joints. The whole contraption could be raised or lowered, tilted from horizontal to vertical, and each cross-bar could be rotated individually for an interesting effect on the prisoner. He studied Dean's nakedness, seeing the broken and battered soul within the temporary flesh-suit he had been given, loving the vulnerability. It was the exact match of his human body; proportional, well-muscled, rugged and hard; a body created by years of hard living and pushing things too far. Alistair thought it was a gift that Hell's torments left no physical scars. It would have been a shame not to see this perfection each day, able to mar it and mold it anew with each dawn.

"Where shall I start, Dean?" Alistair requested, generously. "I'm giving you the choice today, my darling. Your wish is my command."

Dean cringed. Alistair was feeling 'generous,' the worst mood after 'contemplative.' The razor wouldn't be the only thing he'd feel today, and it wasn't likely today would end in 24 hours. The choice wasn't something he would have made before, but after time served he had learned that choosing was better than letting Alistair begin. He felt his heart pounding in his chest, felt the sweat break out on his forehead, and fought the turmoil in his mind. Struggling to find some memory to hold on to he cleared his throat.

"How about the hands?" he answered, hoping to God or Lucifer or anything that Alistair wasn't feeling 'exploratory' as well. "You haven't given me a good handjob in months," he added foolishly. There was no point in holding back anymore, it didn't matter what he did or said the result was always the same: Pain, Pain, and more Pain.

The answering leer on Alistair's face was enough to make Dean shiver. When the cold black eyes focused on his right hand he curled his fingers into a fist. It was involuntary, the memories of Alistair's games crystal clear, his own screams haunting him. Sometimes screaming was all there was left. But he bit his tongue when Alistair turned and walked towards the table behind him.

This table wasn't actually necessary by any conventional means, Dean knew. Anything Alistair wanted he could simply conjure into his hand. But the table was there for different reasons, a psychological tactic that still had an effect on Dean. The sight of all those tools, some shining and bright, some rusted and jagged, some still stained with his own blood and bile and offel. He watched as Alistair grazed his hands lovingly over the tool set, eyes cold and calculating. Alistair grinned as he made his choice, he felt the familiar stirrings as he contemplated which item he would use to extract the exquisite agony from his charge. He most loved to watch Dean's face as he worked; analyzing the minute changes in the eyes, reveling in the change of color and tone in the skin, enjoying the grotesque masks of exposed teeth and crinkled flesh. The sounds were equally exciting; it started with silence, then the breathing would speed, little hisses, then whimpers, groans, moans, and finally screams; all underscored with curses of every variety.

Dean couldn't help but watch as the selection was contemplated. He sorted desperately through his mind, seeking out images of times gone by. He kept seeing Sammy's face, smiling, or more often, incredulous. He thought of John, Dad, that maddening, crazed, devoted, loving, and ultimately self-sacrificing hero of a man who Dean worshipped on hands and knees. He thought of Mary, his mother, a light so bright in his mind that it was no wonder it burned out too soon. Rare moments of laughter, real laughter brought tears to his eyes. Alistair's cruel voice brought him back, though… It was inevitable.

"Where are you going, Dean?" Alistair asked gently. "You'll find no escape inside that head of yours, you know. I'll tear you out of whatever flashback you're in, no matter how deep you go. You should know that by now."

Dean's green eyes swam with tears and he choked back the sob that threatened. The object in Alistair's hand made him want to weep, for it wasn't anything knew at all but the familiar razor glittering there. Sometimes it wasn't the pain that was torture but the sheer monotony of it all. Continuous suffering made you numb eventually, though Alistair delighted in finding ways to make you _feel_ again. Vile, treacherous, nightmarish sensation; the razor carved into his finger, flaying the flesh to expose the sickly pink hue of living bone. Alistair worked; Dean's screams went unheard and in his heart he knew he'd rather suffer with Alistair than be alone.


	2. Chapter 2

"Damned is Love;

and So am I"

By Lucifer's Hell Hound

Universe: Supernatural  
Class: Fan Fiction  
Characters: Dean Winchester, Alistair. Guest appearances by Sam Winchester, John Winchester, and Mary Winchester (Campbell)  
Setting: Hell (between End S03 and Start S04)  
Rating: NC-17 (XXX)  
Warnings: Extreme violence, torture, homo-erotica, incest (sort of), sodomy, language, disturbing imagery, non-consensual sexual interactions, etc.  
Spoilers: Assume you've seen everything up to the end of Season 3

Note: This isn't grandma's fanfic. Be aware that this is a dark, violent, and likely to be extremely disturbing interpretation of some of Dean's time spent in Hell and his interactions/experiences with Alistair. If you find the above warnings to be not to your taste please don't waste your time or mine with reactions of horror.  
Consider yourselves warned.  
Feedback is appreciated; although there is no need to tell me how fucked up I am, I am fully aware (as are my therapists).

Disclaimer: "Supernatural," and all associated names, characters and titles are the sole property of CW Broadcasting, Inc. and its subsidiaries; including Eric Kripke, Robert Singer, Ben Edlund, and any other various sorts who might have a controlling copyright interest. The names of characters, certain plot sequences, and mythological universes are used without permission and without monetary gain. No harm is intended by the use of said intellectual property and no copyright infringement is implied or intended.

Please Note: This fanfiction is protected under the International Copyright Act of 2009. Copying and Re-Posting of this fanfiction qualifies as copyright infringement of intellectual property. If you wish to recommend this work, post it to another site, or in any other way copy, display, or represent this work to another, please contact me first via e-mail. Thank You.

* * *

Chapter 2

"_Let me go to Hell, that's all I ask, and let me continue cursing them from there." _~Samuel Beckett

Dean opened his eyes, slowly, expecting Alistair to be there as he always was, but he was alone. It was dark again, and cold. He felt for a moment that he was free, feeling a cool breeze on his face, but it was only illusion. The air was hot and stifling, ripe with the stink of decay and the burn of sulfur. He never could understand how his body could be so solidly freezing and yet the air he breathed burn and choke like smoke from a toxic fire. His hand twitched and the memory of his last session with Alistair came crashing into him. The methodical demon had progressed from extracting the bones of his fingers to systematically dissecting the tendons of his forearm, followed by an interesting experiment on the sensitivity of living bone to fire. His heart jerked and stuttered in his chest and his breathing sped uncontrollably as he clenched his teeth against the memory. It was just another memory after all, he could feel the wounds were gone. Each day, or week, whatever, he woke to find his body whole. Well, _this_ body, he told himself. It didn't really belong to him and neither did the soul that inhabited it. The soul had been bargained for and purchased, sealed with a kiss.

When he had arrived it had been Alistair who had taken it, chose it from a selection of others for whatever purpose. He had said that he could see cruelty there, and anger to rival the wrath of God. Alistair had made Dean his pet project from then on. Daily sessions were the rule and he never allowed another to play unattended. The only face he ever saw was Alistair's. The only hands he ever felt were his too. The only voice he ever heard was Alistair's cruel rasp.

When he was alone he couldn't escape that voice. It hounded him in his head. Promises, promises. Alistair loved to bargain. Loved to haggle Dean's cooperation in new experiments. God only knew what he got in return; if there was a God. Dean didn't care if there was, because if He did exist He didn't care. God was of no use down here, anyway. Faith was something you really couldn't afford in the Pit, since merely by being there you were already as forsaken as you could get. In the midst of utmost suffering God became whatever brought even an ounce of comfort, and for Dean, that had become Alistair.

It was a slow transition at first. For a while Dean held on to the hate and rage he'd felt in life for all things evil. He had gripped it tight and flung it from himself at every opportunity; insults, obscenities, even striking out when the opportunity presented itself. But the fact was he couldn't sustain it. All that hate burned him more than the irons they pressed into his flesh. He thought of the pain, the suffering, the sheer agony that was Alistair's life's passionate work and the fact that Alistair had thrown everything he had into Dean. Every moment, every waking hour he spent on Dean. In his twisted, fucked-up and purely insane mind all that effort began to appear like caring. When Alistair's cruel hands became soft, even for the briefest of moments, Dean noticed. It was strange how the expert slice of the razor could be tender, or how the twist of a vice could be gentle, but Dean noticed. Thoughts of those long fingers caressing the tender flaying of a freshly open wound, salty sweat stinging even over the searing pain swam behind his eyes.

Isolated, cold, and alone Dean lay quietly wrapped in the convoluted and disturbing tendrils of his own thoughts and cursed himself for wishing that the demon was there. He didn't care that every moment would be agony. He didn't care that when Alistair appeared his desire would turn to terror. He didn't even care that Alistair would laugh and tease him later, knowing even the deepest and darkest desires of his heart. Dean found himself wanting the demon's hateful touch. Wanting to hear the voice croon to him all those words full of malice and truth. For that was one thing Alistair never did, and that was _lie_.

He cursed Azazel, that blasted yellow-eyed son-of-a-bitch, for lying and manipulating his family. Especially his Sammy. God… Sam. Dean found himself praying again, pointless exercise though it was, that Sam was surviving. He prayed that Sam was safe and moving on with his life. That Sam would find some other calling, maybe even return to school and find a pretty girl to marry. But he knew that wasn't so. He knew that Sam would never give up on finding a way to free him or in the least get revenge. There had always been so much anger in that kid. Hatred and rebellion were like second nature to him and though they knew why now, it didn't make it any easier to understand. It didn't matter. Sammy didn't matter any more. They were separated by a greater chasm than anything either of them could have imagined in life. Dean smiled, suddenly… 'Hell hath no fury like a brother – like a Winchester whose family is threatened.' That was something he knew all too well.


	3. Chapter 3

"Damned is Love;

and So am I"

By Lucifer's Hell Hound

Universe: Supernatural  
Class: Fan Fiction  
Characters: Dean Winchester, Alistair. Guest appearances by Sam Winchester, John Winchester, and Mary Winchester (Campbell)  
Setting: Hell (between End S03 and Start S04)  
Rating: NC-17 (XXX)  
Warnings: Extreme violence, torture, homo-erotica, incest (sort of), sodomy, language, disturbing imagery, non-consensual sexual interactions, etc.  
Spoilers: Assume you've seen everything up to the end of Season 3

Note: This isn't grandma's fanfic. Be aware that this is a dark, violent, and likely to be extremely disturbing interpretation of some of Dean's time spent in Hell and his interactions/experiences with Alistair. If you find the above warnings to be not to your taste please don't waste your time or mine with reactions of horror.  
Consider yourselves warned.  
Feedback is appreciated; although there is no need to tell me how fucked up I am, I am fully aware (as are my therapists).

Disclaimer: "Supernatural," and all associated names, characters and titles are the sole property of CW Broadcasting, Inc. and its subsidiaries; including Eric Kripke, Robert Singer, Ben Edlund, and any other various sorts who might have a controlling copyright interest. The names of characters, certain plot sequences, and mythological universes are used without permission and without monetary gain. No harm is intended by the use of said intellectual property and no copyright infringement is implied or intended.

Please Note: This fanfiction is protected under the International Copyright Act of 2009. Copying and Re-Posting of this fanfiction qualifies as copyright infringement of intellectual property. If you wish to recommend this work, post it to another site, or in any other way copy, display, or represent this work to another, please contact me first via e-mail. Thank You.

* * *

Chapter 3

"_I don't like to commit myself to Heaven or Hell. You see, I have friends in both places." _~Mark Twain

"Dean."

It was Dad's voice. The shock made Dean's eyes blink open rapidly, but it was still black and he could see nothing.

"Dad?" he questioned into the darkness. "Dad? Is that you?" His voice sounded so weak and he hated it, especially now. He'd never been weak around his father. John Winchester wouldn't tolerate weakness from his eldest son, ever. It had been Dean's goal to always make his father proud; to always stay strong for him. Dad's word was law, Dad's will his will, Dad's goals his goals. Always.

"Yes, son, it's me." John's voice was strong and deep, as it had been in life. There wasn't a hint of weakness, not a hint of fear for being in Hell. Dean felt his mouth twitch in a small grin; that could only mean he hadn't been there very long. Hell was something one learned to fear with all your heart and soul.

"Dad," Dean sighed in relief and disbelief. "What are you doing here? We saved you. I saw you rise…"

"I did rise, Dean. I left through the Devil's Gate when you and Sammy opened it."

The Devil's Gate, doorway between the worlds. The night old yellow-eyes had finally gotten what he deserved they had seen their father's spirit released from Hell.

"Then why are you here?" the question sounded childish in his mind, like he should already know the answer.

"I came for you, Dean. I came because you need me, like you always need me. I'm your father, I should have protected you. I should have never allowed you to do this. Sam is my son, he's your brother, but he's doomed, Dean. He's evil. You should never have taken it this far. You should have killed him like I told you to."

The words cut deeper than any razor. He had disappointed his father, failed to do what he had sworn he would. John was confirming what he already knew, he was a failure. But the time hadn't seemed right and he had to _try_. Even if Sam was evil he didn't deserved to be abandoned. The vision of Sam's body soaking the ancient mattress with blood came into his mind. It had lain like that for days, pale and lifeless, rotting while Dean looked on. The decision hadn't been an easy one.

"Dad…" he began, unable to form the words at first. "You told me to save Sammy. You told me to take care of my little brother." Suddenly he was angry. Why the hell was his father here, in Hell, telling him he should have let his brother die? Not just let him die, but _killed_ him himself.

"You're the one who told me from the time I was a kid to take care of my little brother!" he yelled, painfully aware of how hoarse his voice sounded. "You're the one who wanted me to save Sam! And since I failed, don't you think _this_ is punishment enough! I'm in Hell, for Christ's sake, you son-of-a-bitch! Because of what you told me to do!"

He was screaming at nothing. He couldn't see anything. Couldn't hear anything but the sound of his own voice and the rasp of air being sucked down his parched throat. But the words kept flowing.

"I couldn't just leave him, Dad. I'm not you. I've never been you, no matter what you tried to make me in to. You're the one who abandoned his sons. You're the one who sold out for _me_! You set the standard I always had to live up to, you bastard! Everyone was always better than _me_. Sammy is the best, he deserved to live. I didn't… So I did the Winchester thing to do, _I sacrificed everything I had_."

He stopped, he couldn't go on. His head hung limply, chin resting on his chest as he felt the shameful burn of tears rolling down his cheeks. He felt the touch of a firm hand on the top of his skull, flattening his damp hair. The touch was so gentle, so kind that Dean felt his breath hitch in his chest as a sob welled up. The hand slid down his head and settled on the back of his neck. Grit slicked with sweat ground between the hand and his skin, but it was so wonderful that Dean found himself sobbing uncontrollably. He didn't bother to look up as he knew there was nothing to see, but the sensation was enough.

"It's alright, child, I'm here," whispered Alistair. "I won't ever leave you."


	4. Chapter 4

"Damned is Love;

and So am I"

By Lucifer's Hell Hound

Universe: Supernatural  
Class: Fan Fiction  
Characters: Dean Winchester, Alistair. Guest appearances by Sam Winchester, John Winchester, and Mary Winchester (Campbell)  
Setting: Hell (between End S03 and Start S04)  
Rating: NC-17 (XXX)  
Warnings: Extreme violence, torture, homo-erotica, incest (sort of), sodomy, language, disturbing imagery, non-consensual sexual interactions, etc.  
Spoilers: Assume you've seen everything up to the end of Season 3

Note: This isn't grandma's fanfic. Be aware that this is a dark, violent, and likely to be extremely disturbing interpretation of some of Dean's time spent in Hell and his interactions/experiences with Alistair. If you find the above warnings to be not to your taste please don't waste your time or mine with reactions of horror.  
Consider yourselves warned.  
Feedback is appreciated; although there is no need to tell me how fucked up I am, I am fully aware (as are my therapists).

Disclaimer: "Supernatural," and all associated names, characters and titles are the sole property of CW Broadcasting, Inc. and its subsidiaries; including Eric Kripke, Robert Singer, Ben Edlund, and any other various sorts who might have a controlling copyright interest. The names of characters, certain plot sequences, and mythological universes are used without permission and without monetary gain. No harm is intended by the use of said intellectual property and no copyright infringement is implied or intended.

Please Note: This fanfiction is protected under the International Copyright Act of 2009. Copying and Re-Posting of this fanfiction qualifies as copyright infringement of intellectual property. If you wish to recommend this work, post it to another site, or in any other way copy, display, or represent this work to another, please contact me first via e-mail. Thank You.

* * *

Chapter 4

"_The mind is its own place and in itself, can make a Heaven of Hell, a Hell of Heaven." _~John Milton

Dean opened his eyes, slowly; the darkness was still there, the air still burned, and he was alone. There was a cool spot at the back of his neck, as though something had just been removed. The sensation brought back the memory of the previous day, if day was what it had been. He really had no sense of time anymore. There was awake, and there was awake; he had no memory of the time in between. Time flowed sluggishly at times, others it flew like a bird on the wind, but every time he opened his eyes he knew a new period of time had begun. It wasn't like coming out of sleep, it was more like jumping into the water only to find yourself dry on the other side of the lake. There weren't any dreams, there wasn't any rest; sleep would have been too much of a relief. Each day he opened his eyes and time flowed on as though no time had passed, and every time, _every time_, Alistair was there. Sometimes it took hours, sometimes he was already there, but he had never failed. Alistair was a constant, just like the cold and the dark.

Dean wasn't sure if he had imagined his father's presence in Hell or if it had been a conjuring of Alistair's, or if it had been real. For one sick moment he wished it had been real, that his father was in Hell, that his soul had sought him out from wherever it was. Then he realized that it was impossible. Souls didn't just waltz into Hell and request a visit with their relatives; especially not a soul that had escaped. John, wherever he was, was a fugitive, and Dean couldn't help the thought that John wouldn't consider finding him to be a priority. He had failed his father, after all. He hadn't been able to save Sam, he could only make sure Sam was alive. But now Sam was alive and alone and doing God only knew what in his grief, haunted by the fact that he couldn't save his brother. Hounded in his mind by the guilt of surviving at the cost of his brother's soul, imagining the torment he must be suffering. He should never have told Sammy about the deal. He should have hidden it better. Or maybe, just maybe, he should have listened to his father and let Sammy die, or killed him.

"Dean."

Oh God. It was Sam's voice. This couldn't be happening. He ignored it, squeezing his eyes shut tight, wishing with all his might that he could plug his ears. Sam was not here in Hell. He was not going to see his older brother's suffering.

"Dean," the voice was plaintive. Little Sammy. "Dean, help me. I can't see."

Dean struggled desperately to ignore him. There was nothing there, nothing at all. Sam was alive and breathing, safe and topside; he wasn't in Hell. At least not literally.

"Dean, please," his brother's voice pleaded. "I know you're here somewhere. Damnit, Dean! Answer me!"

Suddenly something collided with him, a shoulder slammed into his chest as a body stumbled. It knocked the breath out of his lungs and for a moment all he could do was gasp the searing air. A body was moving in front of him. Dean heard the scraping of boots on the stone floor; heard the panicked panting of a large chest. Then a strangled sob reached his ears and he couldn't remain silent any longer.

"I'm here, Sammy."

"Dean!" the relief in his brother's voice was heartbreaking. "Where are you? I can't see anything."

"Over here, Sam. Follow my voice."

He heard his brother stumbling, dragging the soles of his shoes against the ground as he inched toward him. It would be only a matter of moments before his brother reached him, then he would find out what Hell was like. Sam's long fingers brushed Dean's chest, followed by large hands pressed flat and hot against his pectorals.

"Dean! Thank God. I thought I'd never find you. They told me not to even try. They said you were lost forever."

His brother's hands explored his chest, over his shoulders, down his arms, feeling the outline of Dean's body. He sighed at the feeling. The touch was gentle but when Sam's fingers found the steel hooks that pierced his wrists and held him fast to the iron cross Dean hissed in pain.

"Jesus," his brother gasped, his fingers tracing the hook. "Dean, what have they done to you?"

"Trust me, Sammy, you really don't want to know," he responded; trying to make his words sound less ominous than they were. "Just… Take it easy, okay?"

Those steel hooks were no joke. Alistair's special design, they weren't as much hooks as nails with barbed ends. Like a tri-barb fishhook, the center shaft pierced straight through the tendon and bones of his wrists, a curved hook on each side wrapped around the iron crossbar while the third stuck through the palm of his hand. Similar hooks bound his ankles.

"I gotta get you down," Sam said frantically. "How long have you been on this thing?"

The question wasn't one Dean could answer because he really didn't know. He supposed there had been times where he had been free of this rack, as Alistair called it, but he couldn't recall them with any clarity. This cross was just another constant for him, like the cold and the dark. He was shaken from his musings by a sharp ripping in his right hand.

"Fuck! Sam!" he yelled. "Easy, man… That's my skin your tearing at."

"Sorry, dude," his brother mumbled. "But I gotta find a way to loosen these hooks if I'm ever going to get you down and well, I can't see."

Down? As in free? Whoa, head-rush. He hadn't thought about it for a long time. The idea brought a sudden rush of anxiety. At least nailed to this rack he knew what to expect. Away from it was all the rest of Hell, hosts of demons and creatures he didn't dare contemplate. Another searing tug on his hand brought him around and then he felt his arm drop to his side, the unfamiliar movement making his stiff shoulder scream in protest.

"Wait, Sam," he said quietly. "Tilt the rack so I don't fall. I'm not even sure if I can stand anymore."

Sam obediently agreed and pushed on the structure, laying it flat like a table.

"Shit," was all Dean managed as his younger brother ripped free the hook from his other hand and then set to work on his ankles.

"Sorry, sorry," Sam squeaked, horrified at having to injure his brother, as he yanked free one of the wicked barbs from Dean's ankles. Dean groaned.

After several more yanks and none-too-few curses Dean was free. Sam took his brother's hand in his own and helped him to sit up, his spine creaking audibly as he bent in the middle; this was a motion he could barely recall. With a great deal of help he managed to stand and take a few hesitant steps before collapsing in a heap on the cold stone floor. He breathed deeply, despite the acid reek in the air, and simply _felt_. Sam's big hand was on his shoulder, warm and comforting, and the freezing floor was under his ass, and he was curled around himself, shaking like a leaf. It all felt wonderful.

"Dean, I don't want to bring it up, but how the hell are we going to get out of here?" Sam's voice was loud in his ears. "You can't even walk and I don't think I could carry you far. Not to point out I can't see and I have no idea which direction to go."

Dean laughed. It was a strained, cold, mirthless laugh, but it was laughter none-the-same. "Sammy… There is no way out. Not for me."

"What are you talking about? I came here to bring you back, not to abandon you. There has to be a way."

"No, Sammy, there isn't. I'm here in the Pit, your top-side fucking dream-walking or some shit and when you wake up I'll still be down here. There's no point in tying yourself in a knot. It's just the facts." Sam made a low disgruntled sound, but Dean continued. "I made the deal, Sam. It was my decision. It was worth it, honestly, because your alive and you have a chance. Don't hang on to saving me because its not gonna happen. I'm dead, you're not. Do something with that. Break the curse, Sam. Just leave it be. Please."

"Dean, you're my brother. I can't just leave it like it is! You saved me more times than I can count. You gave everything for me. You gave everything for dad before that. You don't deserve this. Please, just let me help you. Let me save you."

Dean sighed. He really didn't know when he made the decision, not consciously anyway, but he knew that he wasn't going anywhere. Not with Sam, and not alone. He was going to climb right back on that rack and wait for Alistair, because that's what he did. The pain, the mind-fucking, the existence of Hell was all he knew now, and he _wanted_ to stay. If he stayed here it would be over. The Winchester curse would be broken, Sam would live a long life doing whatever he wanted and no one would ever have to sacrifice themselves to save his family ever again. The bloodline might die out, but that was okay. It had never been about passing on the legacy, it had been about saving innocent lives. Humanity as a whole was what mattered, and family. Always, family… Blood.

Dean could hardly say the words, but eventually they came. "Sam. Listen to me, please. I'm begging you to just listen for just one second, okay? You have to leave me here. You have to go. Forget I ever existed. Do what you have to, but leave me be. I'm dead, Sammy, and the dead should stay dead. Go home, Sam. Please. Just go home."

"You don't mean that," Sam's voice was quiet, broken already.

"Yeah, I do, Sam. Please, just go."

Dean felt his brother get to his feet. He felt it as Sam pulled away in the darkness. He felt it when he turned back. "Dean, please… Don't do this. I love you."

Fuck. Dean wanted nothing for a moment but to scream. "I love you, too, Sammy. But you have to do this, for me. Go live. Go fuck the Whore of Babylon. But go…" He didn't want to have to push his brother away. He didn't want to have to get physical. This was it, after all. This was giving up.

"Goodbye, Dean," came Sam's voice from some distance away. "I'll see you…"

Sam was gone. He could feel it. He was alone and cold and sitting naked on the bare ground. His eyes were open but there was nothing to see. Please, God, let that not have been the real Sam. Let it have been an illusion. The realization of what he had done crashed upon him. He had just _willingly_ stayed in Hell. Not that there had been much of a chance at escape, that was just stupid. But he could have _tried_. Was he really that broken inside? Was he really so weak that he could give up so easily? How long had it been? Maybe ten years, maybe twenty, he really didn't know. It felt like eternity. But he was done, alright.

He stood up, feeling the unfamiliar ground beneath the soles of his feet and staggered forward. There was no guide for direction but he found it anyway; the iron rack suspended above the floor. He climbed on to it, feeling the familiar way the cold metal cradled his bare flesh. He lay down upon it and waited for Alistair. Thinking: This was where he belonged.


	5. Chapter 5

"Damned is Love;

and So am I"

By Lucifer's Hell Hound

Universe: Supernatural  
Class: Fan Fiction  
Characters: Dean Winchester, Alistair. Guest appearances by Sam Winchester, John Winchester, and Mary Winchester (Campbell)  
Setting: Hell (between End S03 and Start S04)  
Rating: NC-17 (XXX)  
Warnings: Extreme violence, torture, homo-erotica, incest (sort of), sodomy, language, disturbing imagery, non-consensual sexual interactions, etc.  
Spoilers: Assume you've seen everything up to the end of Season 3  
Note: This isn't grandma's fanfic. Be aware that this is a dark, violent, and likely to be extremely disturbing interpretation of some of Dean's time spent in Hell and his interactions/experiences with Alistair. If you find the above warnings to be not to your taste please don't waste your time or mine with reactions of horror.  
Consider yourselves warned.  
Feedback is appreciated; although there is no need to tell me how fucked up I am, I am fully aware (as are my therapists).

Disclaimer: "Supernatural," and all associated names, characters and titles are the sole property of CW Broadcasting, Inc. and its subsidiaries; including Eric Kripke, Robert Singer, Ben Edlund, and any other various sorts who might have a controlling copyright interest. The names of characters, certain plot sequences, and mythological universes are used without permission and without monetary gain. No harm is intended by the use of said intellectual property and no copyright infringement is implied or intended.  
Please Note: This fanfiction is protected under the International Copyright Act of 2009. Copying and Re-Posting of this fanfiction qualifies as copyright infringement of intellectual property. If you wish to recommend this work, post it to another site, or in any other way copy, display, or represent this work to another, please contact me first via e-mail. Thank You.

* * *

Chapter 5

"_Hell hath no limits, nor is circumscribed in one self place, for where we are is Hell, And where Hell is there must we ever be." __~Christopher Marlowe_

Dean opened his eyes, slowly, and was shocked by a dim light. He was so used to the darkness that he never expected to see anything whenever he came around, but now he could make out the empty space around him. After a few moments things began to come into focus. The light came from a single candle burning weakly on the table where Alistair kept his tools. The tools were all there, sitting in silent menace, some glinting dully in the flickering light. The stone floor was covered in dust and gravel, but there were no walls. The space seemed endless, simply fading away outside the pool of light cast by the single flame.

He realized with a shock that he was once again bound to the iron cross, tilted upright, the inevitable pain shooting through his wrists and ankles. He could not recall anyone forcing those hooks through his flesh, and that was a surprise. He remembered dimly the touch of his brother's hand on his shoulder, the bite of the hooks as they had been wrenched free. He remembered telling his brother to leave him, to go back and live a life. He remembered crawling back onto the iron cross and feeling like he belonged there. Now he felt relief, incredible relief at the sight of those hooks in his flesh. Sam had gone, John had gone, but where was Alistair?

God help him, he wished Alistair was there. He looked at the tools laid out on the little metal table, each placed so specifically according to its sort. Weirdly, Dean had given each a number. After so many years spent hunting inventory was something he did subconsciously. Keeping track of so many tools, trinkets, talismans, and weapons was no simple task and he had been methodical in life, whether or not Sam had agreed. His stupid brother always complained about his organization, but it wasn't his fault no one else understood the system. Each had its name, number, and place; either in the Impala's trunk or in one of the storage lockers he'd inherited. Alistair's tools were no different in some ways, perhaps the habit brought a familiar comfort.

Razors (yes, there were several), short knives, long knives, hammers (small, large, ball-peen), hole-punches, drill bits of all sizes, a hand drill, three moveable vices, a small selection of pinchers including three sets of pliers and a pair of tweezers, a bottle of whiskey, a metal bowl filled with salt, and three long-handled iron rods with varying degrees of tapering from dull to lethal. Dean looked at each object in turn, he knew each tool as intimately as he knew his own body. The hole punch on the left (P-3) was sharp and keen with smooth sides so it slid easily into the skin and passed through the flesh without much tearing. The one on the right (P-5) was sharp-pointed too but had rough sides so it tore and fought its way through deeper tissue. The hammer with the wooden handle and square flat head (H-2) was excellent for bruising deep muscle while the one with the rounded heavy head (H-6) was more useful for breaking long bones. He recalled that the large vice with broad toothed plates (V-7) was especially good for shattering large joints in a slow methodical manner while the smallest (V-4) was really good for just applying pressure to add layers to the pain.

Dean thought about these things, and how each had been used on him for years. Those displayed were not the only ones that had been used. Sometimes no tools had been necessary and the simple pounding of a fist was enough, or the jagged sharpness of teeth. Dean had come to know pain before he had ever come to Hell, pain had been his constant companion since before he could remember. The pain of fear, the pain of loss, the pain of abandonment, the pain of grief, of loneliness, of hate, of denial, of betrayal; he'd known it all and accepted it as part of life. Life had been suffering, so why would he ever have suspected death to be any different?

Then there was the conversation, an altogether more challenging gauntlet than any physical torment. Alistair had a thing for talking while he worked, and more often than not he expected Dean to reciprocate. It wasn't that he couldn't simply look into Dean's mind and pull out the information he wanted, it was more that he wanted an opinion and enjoyed hearing his voice. It had become clear that Alistair liked listening to Dean's thoughts on things. The subjects varied. Sometimes they talked about Alistair's work and he would ask Dean how he felt about certain forms of torture, what he thought of the pros and cons of plans, and often enough consulting him on the value of different pieces of information. Other times Alistair would ask Dean direct questions regarding his life, his family, his father, his brother. He would ask Dean to recount certain memories and tell him what they meant to him and why. These conversations were exhausting.

At first it had been Dean's response to be sarcastic, caustic, and uncooperative, despite the consequences. It had taken years of slicing and tearing to make Dean break down. But in truth he hadn't relented because of the pain. When your trapped inside your own skull for weeks on end without a soul to speak to the presence of another being, no matter how evil, is a relief. When that being starts to talk to you, believe in you, even value you, the result is ecstatic. Once Dean had relented and begun to speak in more than smart-ass retorts he had found himself talking more than he ever had in life and Alistair _listened_. The demon bastard was a good listener; attentive, responsive but not intrusive, alert and eager for his words. At times the torture would stop completely, for hours or days, as they talked. Dean had to admit it was odd, but he came to enjoy it immensely.

When Alistair talked to him he found himself listening, not just waiting for silence as he had for most of his life. He'd spent so much time shoving things down and down and down, biting them back and wrestling them into a corner that to be able to shamelessly release them was a huge relief. Alistair was cruel and heartless but far from judgmental. Dean found himself eager to answer, to give his opinion, to make his thoughts known. Eventually he found that Alistair valued his advice above even his best lieutenants, the compliments Dean held close to his heart. He'd been so rejected, failed so often, written-off as a stupid brute so many times that Alistair's praises were like mother's milk.

Of course, these moments were rare and Alistair's twisted mind often confused Dean. He would fly into rages at nothing and beat him to a bloody pulp, or scream insults at him, or tell him stories of what he had done to John while he was in Hell. Whether it was acting in cruelty or acting in kindness Alistair did everything with intensity and passion. The demon never seemed to tire or bear too much, he was always strong, always proud, and never faltered, it was something Dean couldn't help but admire.

"Dean," Alistair's voice was soft, a good sign. "Your thinking of me."

"Yes," Dean answered willingly. He felt eager for Alistair all of a sudden, perhaps he had lost his mind completely, but he wanted to talk now. It had been days since he had really spent any time with the demon.

"What were you thinking about me, child?" he leaned into Dean's chest, looking up into the soulful green eyes. "I'm curious."

"I hate my father." The statement surprised him even as he said it, but he knew it was true.

"Your father? Yes, I can understand a certain dislike of John. He was a unique creature, very devoted, very loyal to his family. But never particularly attentive."

"He never once told me he was proud of me, you know. He never once told me that I was worth a damn. He was here."

"Here? Yes, I had him in my charge once upon a time, but that was a while ago…"

"No. I meant he was _here_. He came to see me. I told him he was a heartless son-of-a-bitch."

"That's interesting, Dean. Why would you insult your father? I thought you were devoted to him in a very unhealthy way. He is your hero, is he not?" Alistair reached up and touched his cheek.

"I did everything he ever asked of me. I gave up everything to follow him. I cleaned up his every mess. Yes, he was my hero. John Winchester, the greatest hunter who ever lived." He leaned into Alistair's hand.

"I assume then that he is no longer. I have to say he never failed to surprise me; though he was never as interesting as you. He was…too hard. And he never spoke to me. Hell, he rarely screamed." His hand slid down to Dean's neck, the thumb pressing a little too hard into the groove where the carotid passed under the jaw. "But you, Dean, have been so engaging…"

Dean tilted his head back a bit, reluctantly enjoying the touch of Alistair's hand on his throat. "I'm just a smartass, there's nothing special about me. Dad was stronger than me."

"Yes, much stronger." Alistair tightened his grip on Dean's throat to the point of pain. "But you have been so much more fun."

With that the conversation was over. Alistair's claws raked down his bare chest tearing deep gashes through skin and muscle. Dean felt the thin blade of a knife (K-11, a short narrow blade with a keen double edge) slide into his gut, carefully avoiding all the major organs. He grunted when he felt the hilt against his abdomen, gritting his teeth when Alistair's firm hand began to saw the blade upward, opening his belly. When his intestines began to spill out he thought about cursing, but the only thing that came out of his mouth was blood. Alistair grinned and reached inside the opening and Dean choked back a scream, the pain was strangely dulled… He guessed his heart just wasn't in it.


	6. Chapter 6

"Damned is Love;

and So am I"

By Lucifer's Hell Hound

Universe: Supernatural  
Class: Fan Fiction  
Characters: Dean Winchester, Alistair. Guest appearances by Sam Winchester, John Winchester, and Mary Winchester (Campbell)  
Setting: Hell (between End S03 and Start S04)  
Rating: NC-17 (XXX)  
Warnings: Extreme violence, torture, homo-erotica, incest (sort of), sodomy, language, disturbing imagery, non-consensual sexual interactions, etc.  
Spoilers: Assume you've seen everything up to the end of Season 3

Note: This isn't grandma's fanfic. Be aware that this is a dark, violent, and likely to be extremely disturbing interpretation of some of Dean's time spent in Hell and his interactions/experiences with Alistair. If you find the above warnings to be not to your taste please don't waste your time or mine with reactions of horror.  
Consider yourselves warned.  
Feedback is appreciated; although there is no need to tell me how fucked up I am, I am fully aware (as are my therapists).

Disclaimer: "Supernatural," and all associated names, characters and titles are the sole property of CW Broadcasting, Inc. and its subsidiaries; including Eric Kripke, Robert Singer, Ben Edlund, and any other various sorts who might have a controlling copyright interest. The names of characters, certain plot sequences, and mythological universes are used without permission and without monetary gain. No harm is intended by the use of said intellectual property and no copyright infringement is implied or intended.

Please Note: This fanfiction is protected under the International Copyright Act of 2009. Copying and Re-Posting of this fanfiction qualifies as copyright infringement of intellectual property. If you wish to recommend this work, post it to another site, or in any other way copy, display, or represent this work to another, please contact me first via e-mail. Thank You.

As promised, I present to you: Mary Winchester...

* * *

"Mom!"

Dean squeaked in utter shock at the figure of Mary Winchester standing before him. He had opened his eyes as he always did expecting the dark and the cold and the loneliness and instead had found his _mother_. It had been months, probably closer to a year since he'd seen anyone. No demons, no spirits, no hallucinations… Alistair was gone. He'd been alone, alone, alone for so long he couldn't recall a living face. He'd been wrapped in memories, both old and new, reliving his moments of breathing and moments of this horror-filled nightmare he'd been living for years he could no longer count. He had screamed into the darkness, begged and pleaded until his voice had given out. He'd held conversations with himself, with Sam, with John, even Bobby had made an appearance in Hell to have a chat with him. He was chained, immobile, and in a room devoid of anything but memory. He had been alone when he passed out.

Yet she was there; wearing a white sun-dress and filling the room with a radiant white light, standing barefoot and oblivious in Hell - simply looking at her son. Dean was ashamed and horrified. His mother, his angel, his ever-present damsel-in-distress from before he could even walk… His reason for being had been to avenge her death. His entire life had been shaped by the choices her husband made when she was so cruelly murdered. She was love personified and every person he had ever saved had had her face. But he could never bring her back… Yellow-Eyes, you fucking bastard!

For what seemed forever she simply stood there staring at him, eyes wide with horror at the sight of her first-born hanging by wicked claws on an iron cross suspended above the floor. What she was thinking Dean couldn't imagine, but he was terrified by the sight of her.

"Mom, why are you here?" he managed to ask, his voice full of sand.

"Dean," she said in that voice, instantly melting his heart. "Why are you here?"

"I…uh…" he struggled. "I had to save Sam," and that was explanation enough, wasn't it? He was in Hell because he had to save his little brother, her baby, her son. Did she not know? Was she completely oblivious to the horror that had been their lives since she died? His mind ran over the possibilities… Mary probably had no idea what they had been doing since her death. But then…

"Mom, how did you find me? How did you know?"

"Dean, sweetheart, everyone knows where you are and what happened to you. Every spirit and demon can talk of nothing else. 'Dean Winchester is in Hell, didn't you know?' 'Dean followed John into the Pit.' 'Sam Winchester is the Antichrist, he's going to lead the Legions of Hell.' Really, son, how could you do this to yourself?"

It was what he had feared, she was disappointed in him. "I'm sorry," he choked. "We killed Yellow-Eyes…we killed the bastard that murdered you," he didn't know why that mattered. This was his mother, not some vengeful spirit…at least he hoped so. God only knew, he was in Hell after all, perhaps all your ghosts came back to haunt you eventually.

"I know what you did," she said, calmly. "I am avenged and you freed John from Hell. It was a great deed. But why did you do this?" she gestured around them with her hand. "You followed in his footsteps more thoroughly than I would have wanted. I never wanted any of this for my sons. I would not have asked for this…" Her eyes were filling with tears and it broke Dean's heart.

"Mom, please, don't cry…" he rasped. "I had to save Sammy, mom. He was dead! I had already lost you and dad, I couldn't live without him, too." She always had made him feel like a child, now he sounded like one; but it was okay.

Mary's hands came up and cupped his face, her thumbs wiping away the tears streaming from his eyes. Her hands brushed over his ears and back through his sweaty hair, smoothing the sides, then down either side of his neck and back to his face. They were so soft.

"Dean, my son… What have they done to you?" She sounded completely heartbroken.

He wanted so badly to hug her, comfort her, but he was firmly bound and had nothing but his voice and he was never very good with words. "I'm sorry…" he repeated for the umpteenth time. "I'm so sorry." He shook his head, sadly, repeating the words again and again. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry…"

"No, Dean…" she corrected quietly. "No, no, no, no, baby… Stop. I'm not disappointed, I know you saved him. You've always saved everyone, no matter what it cost you. I'm just so sad to see you here, like this."

Feather light her hands brushed over his brow, smoothing away the lines of distress. Her fingertips ran over his eyebrows, his temples, his cheek bones, and along his jaw. He sighed at the sensation, tears flowing down his cheeks he hadn't the strength to stop. She leaned up on her tip-toes to kiss the salty streams on each side of his face. He felt her breasts, firm and supple pressed against his chest and her hands pressed to his collar bones, bracing herself.

"Mom…" he sighed, breathlessly, as she pulled away to look into his eyes. He wasn't entirely sure he wanted to meet her gaze, the feel of her breasts through the thin linen of her dress had brought about some uncomfortable stirrings low in his belly. It had also brought to mind that he was naked…

"Dean, sweetheart, please don't cry," her voice cracked with emotion and she slid her hands up to rest on either side of his neck. "I could never be disappointed in you, baby. You're my son, my first-born, I love you. Forever. No matter what."

Finally he looked up to meet her eyes, his green meeting her blue and suddenly he fell. His legs collapsed on impact and he landed hard on his knees, the stony floor tearing at his skin. There was no moment in which to think of how it happened; he blinked and she was there in front of him, and with free arms he hugged her legs pulling her hips toward him so he could snuggle his face into her belly. She responded by hugging his head, pressing his cheek deeper into her abdomen.

"You are my son, Dean. I love you without boundaries. It doesn't matter what you achieved or what you failed to achieve, baby. Not to me." Her voice hummed through her flesh and he sighed again as her hands stroked his hair.

"God, I miss you," he said holding her tighter.

She came down, slipping through his arms to kneel in front of him, curling her legs under herself but never letting go of him. He bowed his head as a sob broke free and he felt her lips on his sweaty brow. Putting a hand under his chin she lifted his face to look into his eyes once again. He brought his own hands up to frame her face, repeating her gestures from a moment ago he traced the contours of her eyebrows, her eyes, cheeks, jaw; he brushed her long blonde locks back behind her ears and finally leaned in to kiss her mouth.

He felt her sigh as he did so and fell to kissing her face everywhere his hands had been. He covered her face, her neck, her hair…his hands and lips frantic through a veil of tears. She sighed again as his lips brushed over hers and suddenly she was kissing him.

He was stunned but the heat of the moment carried him on. His hands drifted down to her back, arms pulling her tight against his chest. He pressed harder and she parted her lips, her tongue gently slipping in to taste the heat of his mouth. What the hell was he doing? He jerked back, bracing his hands on the ground behind him as he fell backwards, startled beyond words at his own actions. His breathing was heavy and his heart pounded in his chest pumping blood to all the wrong places, especially not his brain. Jesus Christ! _What was he doing? _

Mary sat motionless before him, her pale skin delightfully flushed, lips red and slightly swollen from his, her blue eyes misty. "Dean…I…" she whispered, unsure. She took his hand carefully in both her own. Gently she began to trace her fingertips along each of his fingers, unknowingly mimicking the cuts of Alistair's razor, then brought it to her lips to kiss his palm. She looked straight into his eyes as she guided his hand to cup her breast…Dean closed his eyes…

"Dean," she said hoarsely. "Dean, please… This is what you want, is it not?" She squeezed his fingers, forcing him to feel the soft, yielding weight. "Take it, baby. If this is the love you need, take it from me. Please… I want to help you. I love you…"

God help him, he did. With a groan he came up, pressing her back onto the hard stone floor with a kiss. One hand came down beside her head while he forced his tongue between her silken lips and tasted his mother. After a second her tongue met his and they twisted around each other as his other hand kneaded the soft firmness of her breasts. His thumb swirled over her nipple through the thin cotton until it was a hard nub. He disengaged from her lips and traveled over her jaw, blowing wet breath up to her ear. She moaned quietly when he pressed his lips to the hollow below her ear and licked at the back of her earlobe. His hand switched to the other breast and he trailed kisses down her throat to suck and bite at her collar bone.

Dean felt the blood flowing under his skin, making him sensitive to the slightest of touches, and his mother's hands stroked up and down his back, fingernails scraping lightly over his shoulder blades making him shudder. The blood flowed downward, he could feel himself filling up with it. Impatient, he yanked hard at the collar of her dress, busting several buttons and exposing Mary's full breasts to his eager mouth. He took a nipple full into his mouth, sucking hard, and squeezed the other breast roughly. It occurred to him how utterly wrong this was, how ridiculously iconic that he should be sucking the breast of his mother at this stage of his life… Then his mother's hand slid down the rippling flatness of his abs and tangled into the curly hair surrounding his cock and his mind left him again.

He finished ravishing one breast and moved to the other, greedily sucking as if she were still full of milk for him to take. He slid his hand over her belly, delighting in the firm tautness of it as he clawed his way downward. Her pubic hair was fine and soft between his fingers as he gently parted her nether-lips to feel the moist heat within. He pressed her clit between his fore and middle fingers before pushing inside her. Mary's reaction startled him with its violence, her back arching off the floor as a strangled moan escaped her lips. He pressed deeper, eager to push her further, while his thumb rubbed intently at the hardening nub of her clitoris. She cried out, her nails raking his back with such sudden violence that he found himself moaning.

Mary's hand closed around the shaft of his rock-hard cock and the other went to the back of his head, pulling him down to breath a desperate moan into his mouth.

"Dean…" she breathed between his lips. "My son, I want you inside me… Now."

Dean's breath hitched as her grip tightened on his throbbing dick and he groaned his assent. God, but it was so wrong… She pulled on him, guiding his cock down as she spread her legs wide, one calf coming up to wrap around his hip. He leaned back on his knees breathing heavily, one hand going automatically to grab the firm muscle of her thigh where it rested on his own.

"God help me…" he breathed, lowering himself onto her. With his loose hand he guided himself to her entrance while she watched him in anticipatory silence. Ever so gently he slipped inside her, her back arched and she cried out again as he continued to force his girth into her hot tightness. He put a hand to her belly, pressing her down as he glided smoothly all the way in, glorying in the heated contractions of her stunned body. Her narrow tunnel squeezed him like a virgin's and he moaned loudly as he began to withdraw, intentionally not giving her body the chance to truly adjust to his size. Mary's eyes were huge, her pupils dilated so there was hardly any blue and she panted as pain and pleasure warred within her.

It may have been cruelty, but to Dean a little pain had always heightened pleasure and he was far from inconsiderate when it came to his partner. He slid out until just his head remained inside his mother and paused there while she panted, her hands gripping his shivering biceps. When she took a deep breath he drove into her with all the force his hips could provide and was rewarded with a stunned cry from her. Without a break he began to thrust, sliding almost all the way out then driving his long thick shaft all the way in, watching the pleasure and shock play across his mother's face. With each re-entry he brought more force, angling his hips to provide more friction to her clit as her breath came in gasps and moans.

He continued the merciless rhythm until the muscles in his hips and back burned and his mother was crying out with every thrust, her eyes squeezed shut and her lips pulled back over her teeth in a grimace. He could feel her building beneath him, her silken tunnel contracting around him, her back arching… He adjusted his angle again, driving into her with all he had and pressing the base of his cock into her hard.

"Come on, Mary…" he growled, turning to her name so he wouldn't have to think too hard about who she really was to him. "Cum for Dean, baby…" He gave a final thrust, driving himself into her and holding it, pressing his throbbing burning shaft into her clit and she broke.

"God! Dean!" she screamed, nails digging into his biceps, back arching she came like a whirlwind. Her tunnel convulsed around him and he threw back his head, grunting with the effort of holding back his own climax.

"That's it, baby…" he moaned, pulling out of her slickness and driving home again. His balls clenched and he felt the fire in his lower back, sliding steadily through his pelvis and up his shaft. He felt his mother's hand on his face and looked down to see her gazing at him with all the love and passion he could never have known in life.

"Dean… Son… I want it…" she moaned. He gave another hard thrust in response. "Cum for Mommy…" she commanded.

He did. Pressure and fire and unspeakable pleasure so acute it was like a blade crashed through him and he roared in triumph as he emptied himself into her. Again and again the waves knifed through him and he collapsed, shuddering onto her. She was laughing as her arms enfolded him, gentle hands stroking his hair.

"I love you, my son…"


End file.
